


Victus

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: A snippet of Scully’s cancer treatment. Set during “Zero Sum.”





	Victus

**Author's Note:**

> For @txf-fic-chicks Post-Episode/Missing Scene Writing Challenge
> 
> Scully wasn’t with Mulder and Skinner while they were investigating the death of the postal worker in “Zero Sum.” Anyway, here’s what I think was going on with her during that time. Some references to “Memento Mori” because I can’t help myself. This hurts a little bit, just a heads up.
> 
> Also, I’m a bit partial everything Latin these days. The title translates to “overcome.”

When you arrive at the doctor’s office Monday morning, you go into it with the mindset that this is just a routine check-up. Examine your glands, draw some blood, a quick biopsy to test your cells and check the progress of the tumor, and go through the same list of questions, where your answers, although not always vocalized, almost feel conditioned: “How are you feeling, Dana? Any soreness? Exhaustion?” “I’m fine.” “Anything happen out of the ordinary recently?” _Clearly, you’re not familiar with my line of work. But health wise_ , “No.” “Do you have any concerns you would like to address?” _Yes, how do you plan to stop me from dying?_  
  
And you have been feeling relatively fine lately. Some headaches here and there, an occasional nosebleed. Nothing you can’t manage. You notice that you’re maybe a bit more fatigued than usual, but you attribute that to the heavy case load you’ve been keeping. _I’ve got things to finish, to prove to myself_. It’s what you told Mulder in the hallway of a different hospital, after you made the decision to fight back. What you neglected to reveal to him was that if you didn’t busy yourself with the work, your disease would consume you. You’d give up, your body would shut down, and you would never get the chance to make the difference in the world that you so desperately desire.  
  
You get a call two days later. You realize it’s Dr. Zuckerman himself on the other line, wanting to discuss the examinations you underwent earlier in the week. _Oh, this can’t be good_. You prepare yourself for the worst. He explains to you that he’s concerned about the results from the blood work and the biopsy. He’s afraid the tumor may be metastasizing, the cancer potentially spreading into your bloodstream. He wants to analyze more blood and tissue, and he asks you to come in for imaging tests right away. And so, for the second day that week, you find yourself at Trinity Hospital.

You’re grateful for Dr. Zuckerman. Truthfully, you’re grateful for Byers (but really Mulder, especially Mulder) for finding you before you became Dr. Scanlon’s latest experiment. You’re grateful for the Bureau’s top-notch list of oncologists, which led you Dr. Zuckerman. He knows you’re the patient, but he’s also more than aware that you’re a doctor, which you believe weighs greater importance. When you meet with him again following his phone call, he is sincere, but factual. He speaks with you as if he’s speaking with another doctor, not trying to dumb-down the terminology surrounding your illness and the procedures he wants to try. This is the only way you can stay levelheaded.

You call Mulder to let him know you won’t be in for the rest of the week. You tell him that you’re getting scans, that there’s a possibility your tumor may be metastasizing, so you’ll most likely need more chemotherapy; you do not tell him that you’re pretty sure the cancer has invaded your bloodstream. You attempt to put him at ease, insisting that you’re fine, that these scans are procedure, that you expected more chemo. You assure him that you do not need anything and you’ll catch up with him when you can.

As you lay inside the PET scanner, you think of your mother, how you’re her only daughter now. She told you as much in that hospital in Allentown. You think of how she started with four children, and how soon, she may effectively have only one, since you can’t remember the last time she and Charlie spoke. You think of Bill and wonder if he’ll be dutiful enough to provide your mother strength, if maybe he’ll visit her more if you’re gone. You think of Missy, how it nice it may be to see her again.

You think of Mulder. God, you wish you didn’t, but he seems to be at the forefront of your thoughts these days. You wonder what he’s doing to keep himself occupied, if he’s worrying even though you told him not to. You think of how he’s tried his best not to treat you differently since your diagnosis. You think of how patient he’s been with you after chemo, trying to help you find the physical strength to make it back into work.

You also think of Sunday night, when Mulder brought over Chinese and “Sleepless in Seattle,” which he specifically rented because he knows you’re secretly a sucker for romantic comedies. Neither of you admitted it, but that night was an attempt to calm your nerves before your appointment the following morning. And even though you fell asleep ten minutes into the movie, only to wake just as Sam finds Jonah at the top of the Empire State Building, you still consider it one of the best nights you’ve had in a long time. You try not to think of how much you’ll miss him when you’re gone; you try not to think of how much you love him, either.

Even though you’re feeling fine after the scan, Dr. Zuckerman wants to admit you, at the very least to bring your electrolyte levels back up, which apparently are low. You tell him that you can take care of that at home, but he doesn’t believe you will. At least he’s not afraid to tell you that he believes you are inadvertently killing yourself, or rather speeding up the process. You cooperate and call your mother before getting settled into a room, asking her to bring a few things from your apartment, trying to sound as casual as possible. You dread the moment you have to face her, wondering whose resolve will break first. When she arrives, you thank her, but request that she return home, claiming that she will be bored sitting in the room with you. She acquiesces, but not before enveloping you in a fierce hug, telling you how much she loves you. When she leaves, your tears unleash.

You wake to Dr. Zuckerman checking your vitals. You’re amazed to find that you’ve slept through the night and then some, the clock on the wall showing almost noon. Your vitals are good, he declares. But his eyes show that he’s surprised, as though he doesn’t understand why you appear healthy when the results of your scans show the opposite. You sit up in the bed, knowing he will tell you the truth, that he won’t try to sugarcoat the hell you’re about to go through. He tells you that your cancer has metastasized.

You prepare yourself for the change in your appearance: Hollow, sunken eyes, paper-thin pale and bruised skin. You brace yourself for the burning in your ribs and intestines as you heave nothing but water and crackers, knowing you won’t be able to keep anything of real substance down. Once, after the last round of chemo, Mulder brought you your favorite soup. You ate a few spoonfuls, out of appreciation for him, because you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you weren’t even the slightest bit hungry, that the soup would come right back up not ten minutes after consumption. And it did.

The radiation treatment starts that afternoon. Although the procedure seems easier to manage than the chemo, the side effects are essentially the same; you’re told that you’ll undergo more chemo after the radiation therapy, too, as a part of Dr. Zuckerman’s more aggressive approach to treat you. It’s Thursday, you realize. On Monday, when you first came into the hospital, everything was fine; you were blissfully unaware that the ticking time bomb in your brain had gained momentum. You’re wondering how much longer you’ll continue treatments, how much more of this you can endure before you’ll want to take back control of the little life you have left.

In the middle of the night, you find yourself shaking. You had been asleep for a while, a peace offering before the aching and burning in your bones and nerves ignites. You’re not sure if you’re hot or cold, if your body is going into shock. Your eyes sting and your cheeks are damp. You gag and you retch into the pink tray you’ve found at the table next to your bed. Your nausea settles after a few minutes and you move to place the tray back on the table, only to realize that you’re not the only one holding it. You’re suddenly aware of the hand stroking your hair.

You see him there, sitting on the bed before you. He’s always there. It should startle you that he has found you in this hospital, especially since it’s after visiting hours (like that’s stopped either of you before), but it doesn’t. “Mulder,” you squawk out before another wave hits. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, and truthfully you think this might be the end. Your tears escape, you’re so tired of crying and appearing weak, but he shushes you and brings your head to his shoulder until your shuddering subsides. He coaxes you into lying back down in the bed, brushing away a strand of hair that has stuck to your face. He replaces the tray with a cup of water and brings the straw to your lips. You drink laboriously, but the contrast of the cool liquid against your burning throat is soothing and reaffirming.

“I’m not going to stay, I’ll let you rest,” he says, “I just… Scully, I don’t know who else, other than you, I can trust anymore. After everything that happened today…”

You look at him with gaping eyes and see the twist and torment in his face. You want to ask him what happened, who betrayed him this time; you want to tuck him in your pocket and keep him safe from the rest of the world, because it seems as if everyone and everything is against him.

But right now, you can’t form any words. Your exhaustion is in full force. Your eyes slip closed despite your diligent efforts to keep them open. He waits in the chair by your bed for a few more minutes, until your deep breathing convinces him that you’re sleeping peacefully. He gets up and bends over you, bringing his lips to the very spot just above the bridge of your nose where your tumor resides, the same spot where he kissed you in Allentown after Penny Northern died. It’s as if he kisses you there enough, you’ll be cured. You certainly wish it were the case.  
  
“Please, don’t die, Scully,” he whispers against your forehead. “I don’t know how to survive without you. I don’t think I can.”  
  
_No pressure, Mulder_ , you think as he walks away, exhaustion pulling you further under. But he’s right, you realize, neither of you truly exists without the other anymore. You’ve both already lost so many important things, people, even. It seems completely unfair that you’re about to lose each other, as well.  
  
When you hear the door close, you let out a silent sob. You remember, now, why you chose to keep fighting. There are things you have to finish, to prove to yourself. You want to take down the men whose secret policies are behind the crimes in which you constantly find yourself immersed. You want to save as many lives as possible. You want to help Mulder find the truth, about what happened to his sister, to you, even. Most importantly, you no longer want to take the love you have for Mulder for granted.  
  
Your last thought before you succumb fully to sleep is of Mulder’s arms around you in that hospital hallway in Allentown, telling you to come on back. And you will come back, even though death is just an arm’s length away. You can’t let this thing beat you, you won’t. You will overcome.


End file.
